


so much going on it gets hard to breathe

by lovelyflowersinherhair



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyflowersinherhair/pseuds/lovelyflowersinherhair
Summary: Veronica was crying again.





	so much going on it gets hard to breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outruntheavalanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/gifts).

Jughead couldn’t sleep. 

His dad was at work, working the night shift, and the sounds of silence that enveloped the upstairs of the house informed him that the other occupants of the second floor had managed to find themselves in slumber. Jellybean had fallen asleep on the couch watching television, and had had to be carried upstairs by their father before he’d gone on duty, and Jughead didn’t dare disturb Betty due to his case of insomnia. Things had amicably ended between them after her mother had returned home from the farm, and their parents had officially began dating. That, coupled by the existence of their very real shared sibling, and the fact that he had been admitted to a prep school, while Betty toiled away at Riverdale High, well...they’d had an expiration date. 

Sure, they were friends, but they weren’t exactly finished with defining the boundaries involved in their new friendship, and Jughead was dubious that a 2 am wakeup was in any way appropriate.

Alice? Jughead scoffed at the thought. There was no way in hell he was going to disturb Alice Smith’s rest just because he couldn’t sleep. It was awkward enough that there was  _ blatant _ evidence that Dad and Alice were sleeping together (and not just in the form of Charles), he definitely didn’t want his solitary brooding time interrupted because he had disturbed the woman’s slumber and induced a craving of some kind that she  _ absolutely  _ needed to have, or even worse, a hormonal lecture. 

And Juniper and Dagwood were entirely too young to be real companions for anyone. Plus. It was weird. He was pretty sure that Alice had requested custody of them out of a lack of desire for the remaining Blossoms to have them, rather than out of any actual desire to be thrust into the role of their de-facto mother. 

No one had any clue where Polly was, and his father had forbidden them to ask. 

So. Downstairs it was. 

Downstairs, to the kitchen, where Jughead knew there was a freshly made cake just  _ waiting _ to be devoured by him. 

He padded down the stairs, recognizing there was no need to actually attempt quiet, but wanting to do so nonetheless. There was something nice about being able to have a midnight snack without leaving the house, because there was money to get groceries and a mother who actually cared and made sure that food was consumed. Not that Jughead considered Alice to be his mother. Far from it. He just appreciated that she knew the value of a decent meal. 

The cake was where it had been put away after dinner, in a prison (Alice had insisted it was a display tray, but Jughead knew an unfair arrest when he saw one) that was neatly on the counter, a decorative placemat arranged underneath it, and he wrinkled his nose at the sight. Food was for eating, after all. Not to be akin to art. 

But it made Alice happy, and making Alice happy made his father happy, so he knew better than to openly protest. 

He took the top off the case and cut off a slice of the cake, and sat down at the table to eat it. What? He was a growing boy. Being forced to go to a prep school took a lot out of him. 

It was then that Jughead heard a noise from the basement. 

Jellybean had been insisting that the house was haunted (he suspected mainly to get a rise out of Betty and her mother), and Jughead had brushed her off, even though she had been descriptive enough that it had seemed downright factual. Ghosts didn’t exist. Not the spectral sort, anyways. There were plenty of ghosts in the house on Elm Street. Jughead could see it in Alice and Betty’s eyes. 

But he had assumed that the ghost in question was the house settling, and not the quiet sounds of sobbing that were winding up the basement steps, and into the kitchen. 

Veronica was crying again. 

With both of her parents in jail, and her relatives scattering like the wind as if she was poisoned, Veronica had needed a place to stay, and he had opened his stupid mouth, and invited her to live with them, when it was clear that Pop was going to let her sleep in the Speakeasy, and no one else saw a problem with this. Or if they had saw a problem with it? They hadn’t cared. 

Jughead hadn’t thought it would be too onerous for Mary to put Veronica up in the spare guest room at the house next door, but, apparently, it was. 

FP had insisted that Veronica take the furnished apartment in the basement, and she mostly kept to herself, but Jughead didn’t think it was very compassionate of him to  _ ignore _ her crying. Even though he was terrible at dealing with emotions. It seemed rude. 

Maybe the cake would cheer her up.

Food always worked for him. 

  
  



End file.
